


Even the Bravest Of Us

by emptydistractions



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Therapy, learning to love again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 19:38:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13747860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emptydistractions/pseuds/emptydistractions
Summary: “I’m going out for a little bit. With Sam. Please just don’t-“ Another deep breath from Steve and zero reaction from Barnes. “Please try not to break anything else while I’m gone.”He’s looking at Barnes warily, like he’s torn between wanting Barnes to acknowledge him and scared of what might happen if he does. Barnes has a look that on anyone else, Sam might call defiant, but on Barnes just translates to slightly more angry. Then he growls- an honest-to-god growl- deep in his throat, and, eyes still locked with Steve’s, crushes the remote in his grasp.Steve sighs.





	Even the Bravest Of Us

Steve’s apartment looks like a warzone. Sam feels confident in his assessment; he’s been in several, although none of them have been in the middle of downtown DC. 

“Thanks, Sam, really.” Steve looks exhausted. There are dark shadows under his eyes and he’s holding what looks like the remains of a lamp; there’s no shade and the metals been twisted over on itself. “I just- I need a break.”

“It’s not a problem, man. You know I’ve always got your six,” Sam says, and then whistles low as he steps into the living room. 

Or what’s left of it.

Barnes is crouched among the wreckage of what used to be a coffee table; there’s glass shards and broken bits of metal surrounding him. He’s got his flesh hand in his hair and the metal one wrapped around something wooden. When Sam steps into view, his eyes snap up, meeting Sam’s with a gaze that’s somewhere between desperation and rage. Sam’s suddenly reminded very vividly of the feral cats that had lived in the alley behind his house growing up; Barnes has got that same wild look about him with his rough tangle of hair and bared teeth. Steve taps Sam on the arm and motions him toward the kitchen. The piece of wood in Barnes’ metal hand splinters and cracks.

The kitchen at least, is relatively untouched, the stainless steel appliances and faux-marble countertops gleam like they’ve never been used. Knowing Steve’s current lifestyle, they probably haven’t. Sam can’t see Barnes anymore, but the sound of breaking glass reaches his ears all the same. For Steve’s sake, he really hopes it wasn’t anything expensive.

Steve sighs and leans against the refrigerator, covering his face with his hands, like maybe if he doesn’t look the world will go back to some semblance of normal. Sam knows the feeling. After another deep breath, he gestures at one of the bar stools, but the situation’s too tense for Sam to feel comfortable sitting. He opts instead for leaning against the counter and looking around. He hasn’t really been to Steve’s apartment aside from helping Steve move Barnes there after the whole SHIELD thing. The major difference then was that Barnes had been unconscious and all of Steve’s stuff had been intact. He hasn’t been by since, figuring that Steve needed his space to figure out whatever all of this was with Barnes. Seventy years of baggage was a lot to unpack, even without a semi-stranger around to make things even more awkward.

There’s a clock ticking away behind Steve and another one on the wall opposite him. Near Sam’s hand there’s two alarm clocks with blinking red faces and a clock in Roman numerals that looks like it was hung hastily over the kitchen table. There’s even one of those little magnetic clocks stuck to the fridge, the kind you can buy at any tourist shop in the county. This one proudly proclaims in bold yellow letters: Historic Washington DC. The background is an American flag.

“You worried about being late to something?” 

Steve looks around at the clocks and huffs a laugh that sounds dangerously close to self-deprecating. “It makes him feel better.” He doesn’t offer any more explanation and Sam’s not here to analyze every weird thing Barnes does, so he drops it. Steve looks so tired.

“It always this bad?”

“No.” Steve’s face twists into something not quite angry enough to be a scowl. “It’s been- Today’s just a bad day.” There’s a muffled thump from the next room over. “A very bad day.”

Sam weighs his options: He knows Steve, knows that he must be crushing himself under the weight of his self-imposed responsibility for the mess of a human being in the next room. But he also knows that there are some problems that can only be made better by getting a little space and perspective. So he says what he thinks will help. “You wanna get out of here for a bit?”

Steve’s face spasms as he seems to go through a multitude of emotions in the span of several seconds. It’s astounding really, that he’s made in this far in his life without learning how not to telegraph his every thought on his face. In the end, his exhaustion must win out over his sense of propriety. “Yeah, that would be… yeah.”

Steve runs a hand through his hair, making it stand up in wild spikes but it really doesn’t feel like the right time to point it out to him, so Sam stays quiet. He’s always had an excellent sense of self-preservation. Steve grabs a set of keys off the counter and a tan jacket off the back of a kitchen chair before taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, steeling himself for confrontation. He ducks back into the living room. Sam follows without a word.

“Buck.” 

At Steve’s voice, Barnes snaps his head up. He’s still got that wild, desperate look in his eyes and his metal hand is now wrapped around the remote for the television, but it’s been at least several minutes since Sam last heard the sound of anything breaking, so he guesses that’s at least a step in the right direction. Barnes stares at Steve, but otherwise gives no indication that he’s actually heard a word out of his mouth. Steve soldiers on anyway.

“I’m going out for a little bit. With Sam. Please just don’t-“ Another deep breath from Steve and zero reaction from Barnes. “Please try not to break anything else while I’m gone.” 

He’s looking at Barnes warily, like he’s torn between wanting Barnes to acknowledge him and scared of what might happen if he does. Barnes has a look that on anyone else, Sam might call defiant, but on Barnes just translates to slightly more angry. Then he growls- an honest-to-god growl- deep in his throat, and, eyes still locked with Steve’s, crushes the remote in his grasp.

Steve sighs.

 

\---

 

They end up at a greasy little diner tucked in between a pawn shop and a 24 hour liquor store. It’s one of those places that even if Steve does get recognized, he won’t be bothered; he wears a ballcap pulled low over his eyes anyway. Sam waits until after they each order coffee in the biggest size the place offers before he says anything.

“You okay?”

Steve scrubs a hand over his face and pushes the cap up a bit. The blonde hair it exposes is even wilder than before. “I’m- It’s like- like living with-,“ He pauses, at a loss for words, discomfort written all over his features.

“Like living with an animal?” Sam thinks of Barnes growl and supplies the first words that come to mind.

“Yeah.” Almost immediately, Steve is backpedaling, looking as guilty as if he’d just admitting to murdering a man. “I don’t mean that- god, I just. I’m so exhausted, Sam, I’m so tired. I just- I think we’re finally getting somewhere and then- Like this morning, I was telling him about the time in Italy when he lost his cigarette ration to Morita in a bet and there was something there, I swear there was. I _saw_ it on his face, it was like it was _him_ again and then-,“ Steve exhales angrily and slaps his hand on the table; Sam’s coffee sloshes. “It’s just gone and it feels like we take eighteen steps backwards for every one forward.” Steve drops his head into his hands heavily. “I don’t even know what I did wrong this time.”

Sam’s heart twinges a little for his friend. For Sam, this is familiar territory, he deals with it day-in and day-out at the VA with the vets and their families; but for Steve, to be presented with a problem so enormous, so seemingly insurmountable, and to be able to do nothing about it must be torture. He reaches out and claps a hand on Steve’s shoulder, tightens his grip until Steve looks up at him with red-rimmed eyes. 

“It’s okay, man. You know that right? It’s okay to feel in way over your head. Dare I even say, it’s normal.” Steve attempts a smile; at least, that’s what Sam assumes it was supposed to be. He ends up looking more like a puppy that someone’s kicked, but it was a valiant effort, and Sam’s heart feels a little lighter for it. He pulls his hand back from Steve’s shoulder and takes a sip of his coffee. “Have you considered maybe getting him some professional help? Some therapy, or something.”

“I’ve thought about it. A lot, actually.” Steve stares into his own, untouched coffee. “I don’t think I could get him to go, and besides, I don’t know that I trust him not to hurt the person who’s trying to help him.” Sam grimaces. He’s trying to think of any other options- anything he might try with the worst-off of his vets- when Steve’s brow furrows and he looks at Sam like he’s just thought of something. “What about you?” he says

The look on his face is so earnest that Sam cringes and turns his gaze towards the scratched laminate of the table. “I couldn’t- I mean, that’s not really what I _do_.“

Except that it is; it’s exactly what he does. Sam helps veterans who’ve seen horrors in combat that most people can’t comprehend, and if that doesn’t perfectly describe Barnes than he doesn’t know what does. Except. _Except_. 

Sam can’t. He just can’t. He’s got shit to do- important shit- shit that doesn’t involve spending god knows how many hours a week trying to unravel the psyche of a man who had ripped off his wings and kicked him off the side of a helicarrier and shot his friend in the gut.

He _can’t_.

But when he looks up Steve has that kicked-puppy look in his eyes again and Sam knows he’s absolutely done for.

 

\---

 

Here’s a list of the things that Sam Wilson has:

He has a good job at the VA that he actually enjoys; he has coworkers who genuinely like him and a boss who lets him pretty much do what he wants and a good paycheck. He has a nice house with a mortgage that’s almost entirely paid off in a quiet suburb in a city that he likes. He has people he sees every morning on his runs and an old woman who always greets him from her front porch when he walks by her house and a pretty girl that smiles at him when he buys his groceries from the store on the corner. He has work lunches where he doesn’t talk about anything important and evening meals he cooks for himself and a self-imposed mandatory monthly outing with his coworkers to drink cheap beer and complain about how awful government paperwork is. He has a new pair of wings and a steadily growing friendship with Steve Rogers and a little more purpose than he did two months ago.

He has all that and supposes that he must be doing pretty alright for himself if he doesn’t look too closely.

But he’s got other things too.

He has an empty house and a gun in a safe in his closet and a duffel bag packed away in his attic that still smells like the desert. He has nightmares and an aversion to large crowds and a small knife he keeps in his pocket even when he’s only going out to get his mail. He has a mother he hasn’t really talked to since he left the army and a sister who leaves worried voicemails on his answering machine. He has a dead best friend who shows up in his dreams almost every night and survivor’s guilt like you wouldn’t believe.

And now apparently, he has an appointment to talk to the Winter Soldier, as if he has any business telling the guy how to get his shit together.

So. 

Yeah.

 

\---

 

Sam never knew Bucky Barnes, and he supposes that’s a good thing; it lets him come at this with an objective eye. He’s grateful that he’s not trying to do this with nearly seventy years of memories to work through. But sometimes, he does wish he knew what Steve sees, when he looks at Barnes; he wants to know what it is that makes Steve look at him like he’s the only thing in the room, like if he looks away Barnes will disappear forever.

But none of that matters because the only Bucky Barnes that Sam knows is this dark, angry stranger. Even dressed as he is, in soft grey sweatpants and a long sleeve t-shirt that covers most of the metal gleam of his left arm, he still exudes an aura of danger. He reminds Sam of a viper, all long lines and coiled violence.

They’re in Steve’s apartment; not in the living room which has been meticulously cleaned and filled with new furniture, like last week never even happened. They’re in Steve’s spare room, which has a desk that looks like it’s never been touched shoved up against one wall and a few easels resting in the corner. There’s four different arm chairs, none of which match, that Steve has clearly put in here for the sole purpose of attempting to make this easier on everyone. Sam has to bite back a smile at the ridiculousness of it.

Barnes has chosen the chair at the far end of the room; it puts his back to the corner and both the window and the door in his eyeline. Clearly a tactical decision. Sam can relate; he himself has never quite shaken the habit of looking for exits when he enters a new place for the first time. He chooses a chair at a respectable distance from Barnes and drops into it. He’s acutely aware that this is the first time the two of them have been in a room together alone, even if Steve is only one room over, probably pressed up against the wall listening for any tell-tale sounds of breaking furniture.

Sam’s got a litany of things he could say to start this off. He’s lost count of the amount of times he’s sat in this exact position across from people so broken that it seems a miracle they even made it to him at all. None of it seems right for this though. He looks at Barnes, who stares pointedly at the clock on the wall behind him. Sam might almost call the look on his face rebellious, but that would imply some kind of spark that’s just not there in Barnes today.

“So,” Sam says. Barnes tears his eyes away from the clock on the wall to flip up his flesh arm and stare at the watch on his wrist instead. Sam continues anyway. “Anything you want to talk about?”

His words are weak even to his own ears, and he cringes to think of the hit his reputation at the VA would take if they could see him now; he’s usually so good at this. The silence stretches on, broken only by the patter of rain on the window. Sam supposes it’s appropriate. The water on the glass catches the light from the early evening streetlights and softens it, washing everything in the room in a soft glow. It’s probably only his imagination, but it even seems to smooth some of the lines on Barnes’ face.

The clock ticks. Barnes checks his watch again and Sam tries not to be disappointed.

 

\---

 

It’s easy to not hold it against Barnes. Because Sam _gets it_ , he really does. Sam doesn’t talk to people either, not about anything that actually matters.

It’s been almost two years since he left the army and Sam has gotten damn good at talking about anything and everything except the things that he should. He’s a friendly guy, everyone who knows him would agree. He goes on dates and out with coworkers and has the occasional lunch with the middle-aged woman next door who lost her husband on his third tour of duty in Iraq. He’s good at talking; he knows he is. 

He talks about the new restaurant up the street and the quality of its burgers compared to the price. He does not talk about Afghanistan and sleeping outside under an impossibly bright sky and cleaning sand out from the barrel of his gun. He talks about the movie he’s just seen and whether it deserved the praise it got for the lead actor’s less than stellar performance. He does not talk about cleaning the blood off of Riley’s dogtags before sending them off in the mail to his family.

There are a lot of things he doesn’t talk about.

Steve is the only person he’s ever come close to telling. Steve, with his kind smile that says he’ll listen, and his haunted eyes that say he’ll actually understand. But Steve has enough on his plate without Sam adding to it.

He wonders how they’d feel at the VA if they knew that Sam was a bigger mess than any of the people he tries to help.

 

\---

 

Today Barnes is in all black. It makes Sam think of the bridge; he’s almost surprised when Barnes flips his wrist to check his watch and there’s no knife in his hand. The shadows under his grey eyes are like bruises. 

“Do you want to talk today?” Sam says.

Barnes checks his watch again.

 

\---

 

He dreams about Riley sometimes.

He dreams about flying and leaving the ground for the first time and how it feels like if he just goes high enough, he could leave it all behind, all the pain and war and grief. Riley had felt the same way, Sam knows this for a fact. Riley had seen what Sam saw; the way the wings could free you from this earth and everything terrible in it, even if only for a few seconds. Riley, with his easy smiles and god-awful jokes had understood the way no one else did. Riley, whose blood had soaked into the hot sand so quickly it was like it had never even been there in the first place.

In his dreams Sam saves Riley a thousand times in a thousand different ways.

It’s never enough.

 

\---

 

It’s unseasonally hot outside today and Sam hates it. Sweat sticks his t-shirt to his back and gathers around the edges of his sunglasses and stings his eyes. He’s in a foul mood even before he reaches Steve’s apartment. He lets himself in the front door with the key Steve’s given him, because somehow in the course of all this, he’s become Steve’s first call when there’s any kind of emergency with Barnes. Sam’s not sure how he feels about it.

Sam tries, he really tries. He puts on his best comforting counselor face and sits across from Barnes in the spare room of the empty apartment and suppresses the scowl that twitches at his mouth when Barnes spends the first half hour alternating between looking at his watch and meeting Sam with a dead-eyed stare that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

He’s finally had enough of it, he thinks, enough of sitting in a room once a week trying to help someone who clearly has no interest in being helped. He never wanted to disappoint Steve, but he figures Steve will just have to get over it.

“Look,” he says and it comes out maybe more forceful than he meant it to, because he’s frustrated and sweaty and just a little bit angry at the thought that he’s failed so badly at this. Barnes stares at him. “Is it me? Do you want someone else to talk to? Or to stare at? Would that help you?”

He so fully doesn’t expect Barnes to answer that he almost jumps in his seat when he does. His voice is raspy and gentler than Sam imagined and his lips curl around the vowels like he’s not used to talking. “No.”

“What?” Sam shouldn’t push it, he knows he shouldn’t, but he does anyway. 

“No,” Barnes repeats, and the words look like they’re causing him physical pain. “It’s easy, with you.”

Now it’s Sam’s turn to stare because out of all the possible outcomes he had gone over in his head, this is not one of them. “Easy?”

Barnes purses his lips and it’s maybe the first facial expression Sam’s seen him make besides scowling. “You don’t look at me and see someone else.”

And just like that, all of Sam’s righteous anger dissipates, like water trickling out of cupped hands. Barnes is back to scowling at the clock on the wall and Sam closes his eyes for just a moment. He wonders how disappointed in yourself it’s possible to be and figures that he’s probably past that limit. He looks at Barnes again, at the dark shadows beneath his eyes and the hard lines etched into his face and has what is probably not the best of ideas.

“Let’s go somewhere.”

Barnes replies automatically, like it’s something that’s been repeated to him ad nauseam. “I don’t go anywhere without Steve.”

Steve’s not here right now; he’s off doing some kind of meet and greet with some important senator or another. Sam doesn’t remember exactly what was said, just that it must have been important enough to have Captain America there that it had been enough to tear Steve Rogers away from Bucky Barnes for longer than half an hour. There’s very little that can do that, save world ending events, these days.

But Sam’s not an idiot, and he doesn’t think Barnes sees him as one either. He gives Barnes a look that he hopes distinctly says _‘you’re not fooling anyone around here’_.

“I’m not _supposed_ to.”

Well that confirms at least one thing that Sam’s been wondering for the past few weeks, but there’s been no major destruction of property or loss of life that he’s heard of so he decides what Steve doesn’t know isn’t going to kill him.

There’s a brief hiccup in his plan when his attempts to get Barnes to wear a seatbelt in his car are met with bared teeth, but Sam just throws his hands up and figures that if Barnes survived a crash into the Potomac on a burning helicarrier he can probably make it out of a minor fender bender just fine.

He doesn’t want to push his luck, so he only takes them a few blocks away, to a little park that’s chockful of running trails and picnic tables. Barnes picks a table near the edge of a copse of trees up on a little hill where he can see most of the park from where he’s sitting with his legs hanging down onto the bench. The sun is still beating down mercilessly but Barnes seems to enjoy it. He’s sitting with his face tipped up towards the sky; he’s not smiling but there’s a tiny bit less tension in his face than normal, although that might just be wishful thinking on Sam’s part.

They’ve been sitting there for nearly ten minutes when Barnes says, “I hate being cold.”

Sam reflects about everything he’s read in that file from Hydra, and thinks he understands. “I feel you, man. I still can’t deal with sand. Can’t even go to the beach. Drives me nuts.”

Barnes is quiet and Sam figures that’s probably all he’s going to get from him today. They sit in companionable silence for a while longer and when a group of rowdy pre-teens start to come up the hill near them, and Barnes’ hands start twitching towards the boot knives he’s not supposed to have, Sam figures it’s probably time to go.

 

\---

 

To his great surprise, Natasha shows up at the VA the next week, just when Sam is stuck finishing a particularly lengthy form and debating with himself about whether to get Indian or Chinese for dinner.

“Take me out for coffee,” she says. It’s not a request, so he supposes he doesn’t really have the option to refuse. Besides, he likes Natasha, or at least what he’s seen of her. She’s cool and confident and doesn’t seem to take anybody’s shit and she keeps Steve on his toes, which Sam can definitely get on bored with.

They walk to a Starbucks just down the road and even though it’s windy enough to make the leaves on the trees around them shake, she doesn’t seem to have a single hair out of place by the time they get there. Sam orders coffee, black with just the tiniest amount of sugar, in the habit he’s never quite been able to drop from the military; she orders something that appears to be more foam than drink. When they sit, she carefully eats off the top layer of whipped cream while studying him with a careful gaze. He doesn’t flinch from it and she seems to appreciate that.

“How is he?” She doesn’t waste time with small talk, and Sam decides that he likes her even more.

“Which one?”

She raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow at him, in a way that clearly says, _‘Does it matter?’_. 

“It’s been interesting, but I think we’re getting there. Slowly.” Sam pauses for a moment, but she doesn’t say anything, so he figures that’s as much of a cue to continue as any. “It’s been really hard on Steve. He won’t say anything, but it’s pretty clear he blames himself.”

“Yeah, well,” she says, her mouth twisting up in a small smile. “Steve’s always been a self-sacrificing idiot.”

“That he is,” Sam says and holds out his paper cup. She taps it with hers in a kind of morose toast and then goes back to licking the whipped cream off the end of her straw.

“And you?” she says.

“I’m doing just fine,” Sam says and almost believes it. “You know,” he says, “I think you could be a lot of help. If you wanted to. You and Barnes have some shared experience.” A lot of shared experience, if half of what he’s heard about her is true, but Sam has enough sense and a desire to keep his kneecaps to keep that to himself.

Natasha takes a sip of the coffee she’s finally worked her way down to and says, “I wish I could, I really do. But there’s just too much there.” Sam doesn’t ask what she’s referring to and she doesn’t offer up any kind of explanation. He’s slightly disappointed not to have the help, but she seems sincere and when she looks at him, it’s with empathy so he tries not to hold it against her.

 

\---

 

He’s standing in front of his bedroom mirror, trying to decide between a blue polo and a green button-down when his phone rings. He’s leaning towards the polo because it’s comfortable, but this is a date his sister’s set him up on, one of her friends from work, so he thinks maybe he should try to look a little nicer. Maybe the button-down then. He throws both shirts on his bed to puzzle over later as he grabs his phone off the charger. 

It’s Steve and when Sam accepts the call and holds the phone up to his ear, he can hear Steve, breathing heavily. There’s what sounds like some kind of muffled crash in the background and Sam winces involuntarily. Steve doesn’t even wait for a hello, just speaks, and his voice sounds wrecked, like maybe he’s on the verge of either collapsing into tears or going on a murder spree.

“Can you just- please?”

Sam doesn’t hesitate. “I’ll be right there.”

He hangs up the phone and abandons both shirts on the bed for a well-worn t-shirt that he won’t care if he ruins. On his way out the door, he sends a quick text to his date- Denise- apologizing for the sudden cancelation, but it’s an emergency, and maybe they can try again next week. He very pointedly tells himself that he’s not relieved to get out of it; not even a little.

When Steve opens the door, it’s with a harried expression and a dish towel wrapped around his forearm that’s rapidly turning an alarming shade of red. Steve runs the hand of his good arm through his hair and ushers Sam inside, then turns and makes a beeline for the kitchen. Sam follows him, cataloging the state of the apartment as he goes. The living room doesn’t look too worse for wear, though there’s a large mirror in pieces at one end of the room. Barnes is nowhere to be seen.

“Is that-?” he askes as Steve leans over the sink, unwrapping his arm.

“Yep,” Steve grits out between clenched teeth. The teeth marks stand out stark and red against the paleness of his skin. The bite looks deep.

“You should clean that. The human mouth is disgusting.” Sam says this like it matters to someone like Steve, but it’s the principal of the thing. Steve for his part, looks relieved to be told what to do and immediately starts cleaning his arm with soap. “What happened?”

Steve watches the pink-tinged water swirl down the drain, jaw clenched. “He was upset about something. I grabbed him. I wasn’t thinking. He nearly put me through the wall and then-,” Steve holds up his arm in lieu of finishing his sentence. The whole thing is very matter-of-fact, as though Steve hasn’t just uttered one of the more disturbing sentences Sam’s heard this month. “Do you think you can talk to him? He seems to like you.”

Some small part of Sam takes pride in hearing that. Maybe all the time he’s spending with Barnes isn’t going completely to waste. Steve of course, ruins it with his next words. “Just be careful. I’m pretty sure he’s got a knife. Or several. I keep taking them away but he keeps finding more.”

Well. That’s just great.

He finds Barnes holed up in the closet of what must be his room. Sam’s never been in there, but he’s struck by how impersonal it feels. There’s a bed with no sheets and a desk with a single lamp and an empty bookcase with two alarm clocks sitting on the top shelf. This must be how Barnes prefers it; Sam’s sure Steve would deck the place out in a heartbeat if Barnes asked.

Sam approaches the closet slowly and much louder than necessary. He crouches down and pulls the door open even more slowly, making sure to telegraph every movement well in advance. Spooking Barnes doesn’t seem like the best idea at the moment. Barnes is crouched in the corner and he’s got that feral look again and has a knife in one hand and another at his feet. He doesn’t immediately attack Sam, and Sam decides to count that as a small victory. Baby steps, and all.

Sam looks at him steadily. “You alright, man?”

“I’m not going back.” It’s clear from his eyes that Barnes is somewhere else entirely.

Sam soldiers on anyway. “You don’t have to.”

“I’ll kill myself before I go back.”

Sam is silent, because really what can he say to that.

“Please.”

If there’s a sadder word in the English language, than Sam doesn’t think he’s ever heard it. He reaches out and gently tugs the knife from Barnes’ fingers. Barnes let him take it, but doesn’t move, doesn’t take his eyes off Sam. Sam reaches his other hand out and rests it on Barnes’ shoulder, calm and reassuring. They stay like that until Steve comes to find them.

 

\---

 

Sam’s sister calls the next morning. He watches the phone ring, fingers twitching and thinks maybe he should pick it up, talk to his sister, pretend to be a normal person today. But he’s still emotionally burnt out from yesterday; feels like a wrung-out dishtowel. He lets the call go to voicemail, and then very purposefully finishes his cereal, and washes out the bowl and spoon before listening to it.

She’s stern and scolds him for ditching the date she had set him up on; tells him that he’s ruining her reputation with her work friends by flaking out the way he has. Her criticism rolls off of him easily; she’s been doing it for years. He almost wants to laugh at all her righteous indignation, it’s so very her, and it makes him think of her yelling at him for stealing her toys as a child. Then at the end of message, her voice becomes soft with concern and she says, _‘I’m worried about you, Sam'_ , and his throat catches.

He deletes the message.

He wonders what Riley would say. Riley had been so full of life. It seems a shame to his memory, the way Sam’s living now.

 

\---

 

“Can you stay over here tonight? I need help.”

Steve’s voice on the phone sounds like it always does; haggard and just on that edge between exhaustion and collapse.

“Sure.”

Sam’s been staring at his bedroom ceiling for the last hour anyways, so it’s not like it’s a hardship. His eyes are dry and scratchy and there’s a stain in the corner that he’s never noticed before, which is weird given how many nights he spends not sleeping.

By the time he covers the familiar distance to the apartment, Steve is already in his full Captain America gear, shield securely on his back and helmet strap hanging loose beneath his chin. He looks tired, but then Steve always looks tired now. “Thanks,” he says and Sam brushes it off with a wave of his hand and wonders if maybe he should start charging Steve for this shit. Sometimes he feels a little bit like a glorified baby-sitter, except his charge is six feet tall and has a penchant for knives.

“A little late night avenging?”

“There’s a thing over in- I’m not sure how much of it I’m allowed to talk about actually, but Natasha called and said she needed a little bit of help and I can’t just, you know, _leave_ him.” Steve ends his sentence on a high note, almost like it’s a question. Sam is grateful then, for his ability to see Barnes’ as he really is and not how he used to be. He knows Steve means well, but still.

“He’s not a child, Steve.”

“I know.” Steve hangs his head, and for a moment looks so ashamed of himself that Sam wishes he had never said anything at all. “I know. Thank you, though, for coming over anyway.”

Sam rolls his eyes and claps Steve on the back and in general does his best to convey _no-harm, no-foul_. It seems to work at least a little and Steve thanks him again as he buckles on his helmet and rushes out the door, leaving Sam in the silent apartment.

Sam does a quick check of the rooms; everything seems quiet enough and Barnes’ is at the desk in his room, solitary lamp switched on and reading what looks like an incredibly tattered copy of _War and Peace_. From the tense way he’s holding his neck and the way his fingers are twitching on the page, Sam suspects he’s not really reading at all, but listening and alert, as if ready for a sudden attack. Steve, in his relief to see anything resembling normal behavior had probably been thrilled; Sam is not fooled as easily. But Barnes’ high alert status isn’t hurting anyone right now, so Sam leaves it be and entertains himself by flipping between channels with equally boring late night talk shows on Steve’s enormous flatscreen.

Midnight crawls by outside, then one in the morning, and then two, and Sam’s eyelids start to feel like their stuck open with used chewing gum. Sleeping seems like a bad idea though; he’s still got the images from his dreams the night before worming through his brain and he’s not in any hurry to add any more. He’s just deciding between a shopping channel offering a wide variety of tacky jewelry and one that seems to be nothing but nonstop late-night informercials, when he a thud followed by the distinct sound of plastic splintering from the back bedroom.

He’s alert and on his feet in an instant. Sam clears each room of the apartment almost on autopilot, even though he’s certain the noise came from Barnes’ room; some of his military habits are just too ingrained to break. When he finally confirms the apartment is clear of any other threats, he pushes Barnes’ door open with a light touch, mentally preparing himself for whatever disaster he’s about to face.

As it turns out, on the scale of awful things, this one’s not so bad. Barnes is standing hunched over his desk, clutching the broken remains of one of the alarm clocks that had been on the shelf. He’s visibly distraught, though not so much that he doesn’t immediately stiffen up at the sound of Sam approaching him from behind. Sam puts his hands up in the universal signal for _no trouble from me_ and walks toward him slowly.

It’s dark in the room; the only light source had been the lamp on the desk, but that’s now in pieces on the floor. Sam has the sudden, idle thought that Barnes must be playing havoc with Steve’s furniture budget, but this isn’t the time or place for that so he bites back the accompanying smile and turns his focus back to the man in front of him. Barnes is barefoot and there’s blood slicking one of his soles, but he also has the air of a snake just waiting for some fool to get close enough to strike, so Sam leaves it alone.

He stops a good distance from Barnes, hands still up, and says, “What’s going on, man?”

The answer, when it comes, is strangled and almost on the verge of tears. Sam can’t decide if he likes it more or less than the usual, tempered coldness. “I fell asleep.”

“That’s okay, Barnes. It’s okay to sleep. You’re safe here.”

“I lost track of the time.”

“What?” Sam’s not sure what he’s missing in Barnes’ words, but it feels like something important; some understanding he just hasn’t quite reached yet.

There’s a long moment where they both stand there, one hunched over and trembling and the other trying to understand, before Barnes finally has the words to answer. “I can’t lose any more time.” He sounds like he’s shattering.

 _Oh_.

Sam wants to shatter with him, to fall apart, but that’s not what he does. He holds people together even when he’s breaking himself, and this broken man in front of him _needs_ him. Barnes’ back is tight, muscles contracting with each shaky breath and Sam wants nothing more in this moment than to ease his pain, if only a little.

“Sleep. I’m here. I’ll stay up and watch the clock for you.”

Barnes exhales, long and shuddering. It’s like all the energy is draining out of him and Sam knows that the worst is over for now. And when Steve returns in the morning he finds Barnes sleeping and Sam still awake, keeping watch.

 

\---

 

When Sam gets home that afternoon, he thinks about time and how sometimes it feels like it’s ticking right past him, trickling through his fingers like water, abandoning him to its long dreary march towards infinity.

Before he can change his mind, he picks up his phone and texts Denise. Maybe a date wouldn’t be the worst thing for him after all.

 

\---

 

It’s raining again for their next session, just the it was the first time. The drops hitting the window almost drown out Barnes’ voice. He’s quieter than Sam’s ever heard him.

“I think I loved him.”

Some kind of understanding falls into place then, like gears slotting together in a machine. It feels like this should be some kind of revelation, but Sam thinks maybe he’s always known. He’s silent, as Barnes continues.

“Before- I think I remember loving him before.”

“He loves you.” Before the words are completely out his mouth, Sam knows they’re true. Barnes lapses back into bruised silence, out of things to say. “It’s okay,” Sam says. “It’s okay to be happy. To let yourself be happy.” Sam has the distinct feeling he’s the first person to ever say that to him.

“I don’t think I know how anymore.”

 

\---

 

Sam meets Denise at a bar that he likes; it’s just on the right side of tacky, and has cheap burgers and even cheaper beer. 

Denise is petite with wavy hair down to her shoulders and brown eyes that crinkle when she laughs. She seems delighted with his company, even after the fiasco of him blowing off their first date. In the first two hours, she matches him beer for beer and beats him at pool twice until he manages to shake off the rust and slip a victory by her.

It’s halfway through the night when it hits him. They’re sitting on the same side of the booth and he’s pleasantly buzzed and she’s leaning against him slightly, her body a warm press on the side of his, and he realizes that he’s _actually happy_. The realization hits him hard in the gut as he’s laughing at something she’s said. It’s like he’s been underwater for years and it’s his first full breath in a long time.

There’s a small part of him that wants to run but he pushes that down with everything he’s got. Instead, he relaxes into it, the loud music and the taste of beer and her warm body pressed against his. Something in his chest loosens as he takes it all in.

He thinks maybe he might even tell her a story about Riley.

 

\---

 

Sam has solved some problems in his life, big ones even. He likes to think that he more or less has his shit together enough to tackle even the worst that gets thrown his way. This one though, this one’s new.

“Can’t you take him to New York? The tower?”

Steve shakes his head and stares morosely into his drink. They’re back at the hole-in-the-wall diner with their usual order of coffee with a side of problems no person should ever have to deal with. “I don’t think New York’s a good idea, right now. It’s… a lot to process. Besides even if I could get him to go, there’s no way he’d agree to the surgery.”

“If he doesn’t want the surgery, than it doesn’t matter, does it? It’s not like you can force him.”

“I don’t think there’s really a choice Sam. You haven’t seen him this last week. It’s getting worse. He can barely use his arm and when he does, he can’t control it at all. He nearly put a hand through the wall this morning just trying to get dressed.”

Sam sighs and taps his fingers across the table, thinking. “I mean, can’t Tony fly down and fix it? He wouldn’t even need to be knocked out for that, so it shouldn’t be a problem, right?”

Steve’s mouth twists into a frown. “I sent the scans to Tony already. The arm’s pretty much trashed. He said he could design a new one, no problem, but it’s the attaching it that’s the issue. I don’t what to do for him.”

Sam takes a swig of his coffee, because he knows where this is headed, had known since they sat down how this would end. “I’ll talk to him.”

 

\---

 

In the end, they all meet in the middle. 

True to his word, Tony designs and manufactures the arm in record time and- under threat of death from Steve- with no more bells and whistles than absolutely necessary. Bruce flies down to DC to deliver the arm and do the actual surgery. That one had taken a bit more convincing, what with Bruce’s repeated attempts to convince Steve that he was ‘not that kind of doctor’. Steve had eventually talked him into it using a combination of his do-for-your-country Cap voice and a very well-timed deployment of the phrase _I trust you_. Bruce had folded like a cheap napkin.

Barnes, for his part, agreed to the surgery, but with one major caveat, which also happened to be the cause of their current predicament. They were completely ready to go; Tony had thrown a lot of money at a nearby hospital to get them the quiet use of an operating room and the even quieter use of a few very discrete nurses, but none of it would matter unless they could get Bruce and Barnes to come to a damn agreement sometime in this century.

“I’m not doing this without anesthesia,” Bruce says vehemently. “I won’t. It’s unethical and frankly, dangerous.”

Barnes meets him with gaze that’s sharp and defiant. “You’re not putting me under.”

“Then we’re not doing this.”

“Fine.”

“You’re going to pass out anyway. At least this would save you the pain.”

Barnes’ voice is ice. “No, it wouldn’t.”

The entire time they’ve been speaking, Steve has been shifting his weight from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable but not knowing quite what to do to fix it. “What about a local anasethetic?” he asks. “A _strong_ one?”

To his credit, Bruce does at least appear to think this over before shaking his head. “There isn’t anything that strong. It would be like trying to stop a train with one hand.” He winces, because three out of the four people in the room probably _could_ do exactly that. “Poor choice of words.”

They’re at a standstill then, neither Bruce nor Barnes willing to budge.

“Buck,” Steve finally says softly. “Please. We’re just trying to help you. I promise, nothing bad will happen. _Please_.”

Barnes, who hasn’t even looked at Steve or otherwise acknowledged he’s even being spoken to, suddenly crumples. Like a puppet whose strings have been cut, he doubles over on himself, eyes squeezed shut tight and says from between clenched teeth, “Fine.” The words seem to cause him pain and Sam aches for him.

Steve’s eyes are wide, like he wasn’t expecting Barnes to listen to him at all. To be fair, that’s probably exactly the case, but he recovers quickly, and runs a hesitant hand through Barnes’ hair. Barnes seems to almost let himself lean into the touch before shaking it off entirely. When he opens his eyes again, they’re carefully blank and he doesn’t say a word as Bruce tells him to lay down and starts prepping for the procedure.

They’re finally ready to go and Bruce has the needle hidden carefully out of sight- Barnes’ had flat out refused the IV, so it was going to have to be the old-fashioned way- when Barnes reaches up suddenly, gesturing in Sam’s direction.

“Me?” Thus far, Sam’s been standing a polite distance from the action, more here to be a shoulder for Steve to cry on than anything else. 

Barnes nods. “Stay.” It’s a command and a question at the same time, and it’s not a hard decision for Sam to make at all. 

“Okay.”

After that, Bruce shoos Steve out of the room altogether because that just seems like disaster waiting to happen. Barnes visibly tightens up when Bruce approaches with the needle and Sam can see his throat working violently. He flings his flesh hand in Sam’s direction and Sam takes it in his without a second thought, threading their fingers together tightly. 

Barnes stares at him, and looks so very lonely in that moment. “Tell me about the wings.”

And that’s something Sam can do easily. He talks about the feeling of weightlessness as he’s swooping up towards the sun as Barnes hand tightens in his own, and he talks about watching the earth fall away beneath him as the drugs begin to circulate and Barnes grip goes slack. He talks about feeling like his own problems must be very small and insignificant when he’s faced with the enormous expanse of the open sky and he talks about the joy of the wind whistling in his ears. He talks long past the point that Barnes can hear him and he never lets go of his hand, even when the smell of blood curls up inside his nostrils and makes him think of desert nights and clipped wings.

 

\---

 

Tony’s brilliant, as always, and the new arm gives Barnes real feedback, not just the pressure sensors he had before. Sam’s there and smiling as Barnes runs his hand over every surface in the apartment like a child discovering touch for the first time. And when Barnes runs his hand through Steve’s hair and an honest-to-god smile passes over his lined face, Sam’s heart swells so much it feels like it might burst out of his chest.

 

\---

 

Sam goes on another date with Denise that weekend. They go bowling and he trips all over himself and she laughs herself silly over his antics. He kisses her goodnight and she smiles shyly at him when he drops her off at her apartment.

When his sister calls he answers, and they talk- really talk- like they haven’t since they were kids and when he finally hangs up the phone it’s nearing midnight and his face hurts from smiling.

He thinks maybe tomorrow he’ll finally call his mother. It would be nice to tell her how happy he is.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
